Author's note:
Quick update and a massive thank you for all your amazing feedback and suggestions! Seriously, you guys are the best!
For those who braved the first draft of this beast, you have my eternal gratitude (and probably some confusion)- Massive thanks for sticking around (and enduring that hot mess). You guys spoke, I listened (obsessed over every comment, rewrote the entire thing six times or more...) and BAM! Here we are. Same heart, shinier armor, hopefully a less rage-inducing plot.
Did I completely trash the original timeline and rework like, 80% of the plot points because of your brilliant comments?
Maybe. Don't worry, the soul of the story's still here... just with fewer plot holes and hopefully, slightly more coherent characters. Picture me hunched over my desk with a gallon of coffee and a ton of crumpled drafts—it wasn't pretty, but it was worth it.
For the bright-eyed new readers, welcome aboard! I won't bore you with the messy details, but let's just say things are about to get interesting. And hopefully good. Like, actually good this time.
One last thing... I'm making a real go of this writing thing now! New chapter EVERY WEEK, scout's honor- promise I won't disappear into the void again!
The aroma of roasted chicken promised a comforting end to the day. Eight-year-old Mark bounced in his seat.
"Mom, you won't believe what happened at school!"
"Did you pull another prank?"
Sarah smiled, auburn braid swaying as she turned from the stove. "What is it this time? Another prank?" The afternoon sun warmed the gentle lines around her eyes.
"Not exactly a prank," he said. "But Billy - you know, goofy grin and all? He was showing off his new soccer moves during recess, and..." Mark paused, eyes wide. "He tripped over his own feet and landed face-first in the mud!"
"Oh no, poor guy! Was he alright?"
"He was covered in mud from head to toe! Like a mud monster!" Mark giggled,flinging his arms out. "Everyone started laughing, even Mr. Thompson! Billy got all grumpy, though."
"What happened after that?"
"He spent the rest of recess trying to clean himself up with a tiny teeny napkin. It was funny!"
"I bet he wasn't too thrilled." She added softly. "Remember, Mark, it's okay to laugh with people, not at them. While it's funny to see someone slip up, it's important to be kind, alright? We all make mistakes."
"I know, Mom," he mumbled, stabbing his fork into a potato. "I didn't laugh at him... much."
"That's my boy," She ruffled his hair with a smile.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but a deafening crash cut him off. The front door swung inward, revealing his father who slammed the door behind him with shaking hands.
"David!" Sarah cried. "What's going on?"
His voice was a strangled whisper. "Get Mark. We have to go. Now."
"What are you talking about? What happened?"
"No time," he said, finally meeting her gaze, eyes wide with a terror that chilled her to the bone. "They found out, Sarah. They're coming."
Terror wiped the smile from Sarah's face. "How? We've been so careful..."
"It doesn't matter now," David interrupted. "We need to hide him."
Mark, caught in the grip of his father's fear, finally found his voice. "Dad? What's happening? Who's coming?"
Before David could answer, Sarah scooped Mark into her arms and rushed them out of the kitchen, "Come on, Mark!"
She hurried down the hallway, veering suddenly toward a bookshelf Mark had never paid much attention to before. She shoved it aside, revealing a door completely hidden behind it.
Mark's eyes widened, "Wha--"
"Shhh...down here, quickly," she hissed, pushing him through. The opening led to a narrow staircase that vanished into darkness below. A wave of musty, cold air hit him, carrying the scent of damp earth.
The rickety steps creaked under their combined weight. Mark's heart thumped a wild rhythm against his ribs, keeping time with his mother's hurried steps. The air grew colder as they descended. When they reached the bottom, a single flickering light bulb revealed a cellar cluttered with cobwebs and shrouded shadows.
Sarah pulled him towards a large wooden cabinet tucked against the far wall. Its paint was chipped and faded.
"Mark, listen to me," she whispered urgently, dropping to her knees before him, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. "No matter what you hear,
no matter what
, you stay in here. You understand?"
He'd never seen his mother like this, her face pale and drawn with a fear that made his own throat tighten. A thousand questions crowded his tongue, but the fear in her voice silenced him.
All he could manage was a small nod.
Sarah cupped his cheek and pressed a kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering for a moment. Then, she pulled him into a tight embrace, her familiar scent enveloping him. It was the scent of home, of safety, and in that moment, it was all that mattered.
Then, with a last squeeze, she shut the cabinet door.
The darkness inside the cabinet pressed down like a hand over his mouth. Mark squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, but the blackness only deepened.
The air was thick with the scent of stale wood and damp earth. He hugged his knees tight to his chest, trying to disappear into himself, willing the rough wood against his back to melt away. But there was no escaping the cramped space, the suffocating darkness, the pounding of his own heart.
What is happening? Why were they hiding? Who were they hiding from?
Each unanswered question tightened the knot of fear twisting in his gut.
Silence pressed in. He held his breath, listening for—he didn't know what.
Thump. A muffled curse. Scraping of furniture across the floorboards above.
More sounds, closer this time— heavy footsteps, the shattering of glass. A strangled cry. His mother? He wanted to clap his hands over his ears, but fear froze him in place.
Be brave
, his father's voice echoed in his head.
Be strong
. But in the smothering blackness, he felt very small and very, very alone.
Then, silence. He counted the thudding beats of his heart until —
"We have ways to make you talk," a voice rasped.
A crash from above, closer now. And then, unmistakable, his mother's scream. Mark flinched back, as though he, too, had been struck. He imagined her, trapped, hurting, and the image made bile rise in his throat. He bit back a sob.
"Where's the boy?" the same harsh voice demanded. "Tell us, and we'll make it quick."
Another cry, weaker this time. His name was a whimper on her lips.
"Stop it," a calmer voice intervened. "There's no time for games."
"I don't know what you're talking about," his father's voice, ragged with strain.
"Don't bother lying. Your little friends told us about the runt. You really think you could keep him hidden?"
Mark's mind reeled.
What were they talking about?
He heard his mother's voice then, stronger now. Defiant. "You guys must be really scared, huh?"
A sharp slap cut her off, followed by a choked whimper. Mark's hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms. A surge of rage, hot and blinding, shot through him, but it was quickly swallowed by the rising tide of terror.
"Find the brat," the calm voice snapped, each word clipped and precise. "We don't have all night."
Mark squeezed his eyes shut.
Please, please just go away.
He wanted to scream, to burst out of the cabinet and tell them to leave his parents alone.
"Enough of this nonsense," the harsh voice growled, impatience reaching its peak. "Let's just kill them and be done with it."
"But we still haven't found the boy."
"He's not here," the harsh voice replied, a tremor of uncertainty in its tone. "They must have sent him away."
"And if they haven't?"
The silence that followed was heavier than before, filled with unspoken threats.
"It's a risk we'll have to take," the harsh voice decided, cold and final. "Eliminate them. No loose ends."
Mark's blood ran cold at the words, and he felt a sickening sense of dread settle in his stomach.
His father spoke, a pleading note in his voice, but Mark couldn't make out the words.
Then, two sharp cracks split the air. His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering a frantic tattoo against his ribs.
The silence that followed was a crushing weight, pressing him deeper into the darkness. Mark's breath hitched in ragged sobs. Time twisted into a blur; hours, minutes—it could have been an eternity before the echo of retreating footsteps finally faded away. But his mother's warning—
no matter what
—kept him rooted in place.
As if in a daze, he finally pushed open the cabinet door. The single dim light bulb swaying in the cellar seemed to mock the sudden emptiness. His bare feet, numb with cold, made no sound against the damp earth floor as he stepped out.
One step at a time. He gripped the stair railing, his small hand slick with sweat despite the chill. The silence in the house was all wrong, broken only by the creaking of the floorboards beneath his weight.
As he emerged into the living room with great difficulty, the sight that greeted him was a nightmare.
No. No. Please no.
His parents lay sprawled amidst the upturned furniture like discarded toys, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles.
Nausea rose in his throat, and he stumbled backward, tripping over an overturned chair and landing hard on the floor. Hot, stinging tears streamed down his face as he crawled towards them.
